It is that quiet, references now emblematic. A pattern of abuse wanders into a courtyard, looking grand or some strange theory. Discussion crumbles into quiet particles, each down to the last expectation. In this gingerly tumble, we think we can begin. Here, in this edge of worm, this shuck. The density of doors contributes to outside thinking. Rodeo fans yell in glee, having seen a rider gored by eminent bull, as if that were the whole telling. Yet unlovely people, making examples and distributing literature, claim mysterious rights. The real reason the place stinks is within the books they hold up. Weapons can’t be changed. The word within any mouth must live its life in that netherworld imagined for scantest moment. There, where you can’t turn away, where you can’t ignore or find alternate funding. There, in that political tornado. Otherwise the weakness wins, people still cheering for their claimed reasons. We need, we want, we urge, we taunt: simple as rhyme, simple as time. Stuck in jet set machinery, waiting for the club to convene, and no bird sings. What trajectory will claim the rest, the unbidden, the worm-eaten, the next to nothing? Hello ocean of intensive care, the wound still gapes. People think they laugh. No bird sings.